


put your arm 'round my collarbone (and open the door)

by pendraegon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, no beta we die like abigail, um hannibal is a simp and brings home a dog. will kills someone. it's very romantic.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30040425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendraegon/pseuds/pendraegon
Summary: There is a dog on the side of the road. That is not truly a remarkable sight, there will always be dogs left on the side of roads, mangy and dirty, too-thin with sunken ribs and hollow eyes, licking their chops nervously as they stare briefly back at the passing flock of people, tail tucked between their legs and a snarl ready to rip past their throat, malnourished and eager to bite, weak and frail, desperate and forebodingly alone. They are social creatures, and Hannibal finds himself sorry for them. Perhaps a trait he picked up from Will.(Will likes dogs. Hannibal finds them charming — loyal beasts. They remind Hannibal of himself.)
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 27
Kudos: 103





	put your arm 'round my collarbone (and open the door)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "Putting the Dog to Sleep" by The Antlers.

There is a dog on the side of the road. That is not truly a remarkable sight, there will always be dogs left on the side of roads, mangy and dirty, too-thin with sunken ribs and hollow eyes, licking their chops nervously as they stare briefly back at the passing flock of people, tail tucked between their legs and a snarl ready to rip past their throat, malnourished and eager to bite, weak and frail, desperate and forebodingly alone. They are social creatures, and Hannibal finds himself sorry for them. Perhaps a trait he picked up from Will.

(Will likes dogs. Hannibal finds them charming — loyal beasts. They remind Hannibal of himself.)

Baltimore, Jack Crawford, the FBI, the Chesapeake Ripper, that little house hugging the cliff face are all but a dream; they have long since left their old lives far behind. Together they licked their wounds after the damage left by the Dragon, after Dolarhyde, have shed their skin and their past selves, have simply _become_. Will slips into this reincarnation as easy as a fish to water, it is almost as if the Will Graham of the past never existed — the Will Graham of the past was a shadow, a refraction of what Will truly could be, what Will had the capacity of becoming, but never a reflection, never a mirror of who Will Graham was and is. The Will Graham constrained by his fragile morality and his thick porcelain walls, the forts that he had so painstakingly built in his mind for protection against his true nature nothing more than ash, a smoked ruin alongside a hazy, distant shore. And Hannibal is pleased, voraciously so.

(Hannibal has no misgivings, as much as Hannibal has bulldozed into Will’s life, into his psyche, into his very essence so did Will to him in turn. Will had razed Hannibal’s world to the ground and risen along with it like a phoenix, and Hannibal — )

( — in the candlelight of the Norman Chapel, amidst the blinding light that bathes Will’s form, oh, Hannibal _knows_ — )

(— Hannibal knows god, of god. Intimately. An intimacy that burns and smoulders and festers, purification and sacrificial and Hannibal breathes in the fragrant myrrh, sustained by it. By the sidelong glances Will graces him, by the feel of Will’s fingers upon his face, upon the scar of his cheekbone like a kiss of benediction — )

(Contrary to what the Will-of-the-past thought, to Alana’s quiet musings and Jack’s careful considerations, even Margot’s brittle, biting awareness, it was not the darkness so carefully packed away, so carefully hidden, so entangled and meshed into Will’s chest and fiber of being that had first caught Hannibal’s eye. No, it was a vision, a spark of what-could-be, a trickle of a daydream, Hannibal finding himself his own Cassandra as Will denied himself and then them, teacup and all, over and over — )

( — no, it was the light radiating in Will’s eyes, a light that Hannibal could almost taste, a light that encircled his messy curls, a vengeful winged thing, a braying beast held at bay hungering for something more, something just, something righteous. A shadow and a flicker of a god, a forgotten relic left at a decayed temple, and Hannibal had gone down on his knees willingly and with utter devotion, stroked the flame that had been left to wither and fan out for far too long.)

( — Hannibal played a part, of course he did, you can’t have religion with just a devotee, a devoted is required, necessary. What is a god without its ardent followers? Will had been a dying, languishing altar and Hannibal his cupbearer years before they had even met, maybe even from the start of the big bang and beyond.)

(Hannibal loves the sound of that — that somehow through space and time he and Will had finally reconciled, hundreds and thousands and millions of years from the very first reckoning of the world.)

The motorcycle beneath Hannibal thrums; he wishes he had some homemade sausage to tempt the dog closer. He gazes at the dog, ponders, thinks about the vivacity of Will’s smile, and shuts the engine off and kicks the bike stand into place. The groceries are secured in a basket at the back and there is nothing that will spoil or need immediate refrigeration. He rummages through its contents — he bought brie. Triple cream. It would have been perfect with some homemade bread, grapes, a nice dry riesling to accompany it, plated luxuriously upon the table before Will, an offering.

(Well, as much as Hannibal would have liked to offer Will that, Will would like a dog more. And Hannibal had learned his lesson, to never deny Will something for too long.)

Hannibal makes a low noise in the back of his throat to alert the dog of his movement as he shuffles off the bike. The dog’s answering snarl reverbs through the air and Hannibal smiles. The dog’s canines are yellow and the fur on the back of the dog’s neck sticks up — a futile, evolutionary response against aggressors, against other beings that can bite and cleave bone from flesh cleanly, and Hannibal has practiced, has worshiped that art well.

(The dog’s fur is a tawny brown, lighter than Will’s curls. Hannibal finds himself charmed.)

(Hannibal doesn’t delude himself in believing that he can win the dog’s love — trust perhaps. But trust is a frail, weak thing. Visions already spark against the back of his eyelids, kiss against the interior of his skull, in his mind palace amongst the stone and sunlight strewn halls and the faint roar of music cacophonous in its dissimilitude to the bubbling of the Danube, the ensorcelled walls of the Louvre, the lovely animosity found in the haunts of the Sevillian sun, Hannibal can see Will and this dog, well-fed and hale, anywhere from the cool coast of Newfoundland to the diaphanous night markets of Seoul.)

(It’s not an alien thing, this desire for family. Will wants it too, it’s one of the first things that Hannibal recognized in him.)

(Will’s family; Will likes dogs. The dog will undoubtedly love Will.)

(Hannibal loves Will too. Loves him like a dog with a broken leg loves the master that gently pets its flank and muzzle as he prods and wraps the snapped femur, carefully and with regret laced in every delicate movement.)

It is a mutt of some kind — a Borzoi crossbred with something else, perhaps an Australian shepherd or a Bernese mountain dog. Its snout and legs are as long and gangly as its matted fur, baleful eyes staring out at Hannibal, daring him to make a move. Amusingly enough, the dog has “eyebrows” as Will would call them, two orange dots that frame its face, charming and sweet despite its ragged appearance. 

He wiggles his hand, hoping to entice the dog forward. The mutt looks at Hannibal’s hand as if it would like nothing more than to bite off his fingers. 

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Hannibal murmurs. “I didn’t think ahead; this is all I can offer you.” If Will were here, he would throw his head back and laugh, his mouth twisted with fondness and his eyes clear and kind, Hannibal can imagine Will’s words — _as if triple cream brie wasn’t luxurious enough for a mutt_.

(But this will be Will’s dog and Will will love this dog and this dog will love Will back. Will’s dog deserves the best.)

“I didn’t think ahead,” Hannibal confesses, and isn’t it right that Will’s very own dog would serve as Hannibal’s confessional? “It is not a habit I try to indulge in often.” He opens the package and for a moment debates if he should scoop out the cheese with his fingers and offer it to the dog. It is with satisfaction that the thought of it is disgusting to him, that despite their coalescence, he and Will differ in this regard. Instead, he places the container on the gravel, closer to the dog than to him, and waits.

(Hannibal knows how to wait, he has bit back the bridle of impatience one too many times, it has soaked into his bone, percolated in his marrow — he had to wait for Will more than once, had to wait in that dingy cell with only his mind for company, had to wait in between his hunts, had to wait before he killed Mischa’s killers. Hannibal knows how to wait, he knows patience intimately.)

The dog inches closer and closer, curiosity winning over self-preservation, and Hannibal grins, teeth flashing in the falling darkness as the dog goes for the brie. The dog grabs a bite and draws back to eat before returning again and again, and Hannibal watches as a quarter of the cheese is devoured slowly. The dog licks its chops and then sits on its haunches, head tilting as it stares at Hannibal warily.

“You don’t want more?” Hannibal prompts, nudging the brie closer.

The dog looks at it before blinking at Hannibal slowly. Hannibal hums, pleased that it hasn’t gorged itself to indulgence. He shuffles towards the dog in brief increments pausing every now and again to take stock in the dog’s reactions, Hannibal’s eye is critical and he makes sure that his movements are languid but his muscles tense up in case the dog decides to retaliate with a snap of its jaws, with its claws — after all, beasts are not so easily tamed, not so easily conquered, not so easily won.

“Would you like to come with me?” Hannibal asks, and somewhere in the echoes of his mind, locked deep, deep away in a room under cement and dirt and the taste of the ocean, salty and sick, and of Will’s blood which intermingles on his tongue, coats his teeth, clings to the insides of Hannibal's mouth, and a ghost of Hannibal’s past shrieks and claws at the door, at the walls, shudders against the windows — the Hannibal of the past, the Hannibal before Will is a different beast, a different thing, and although Hannibal has never been cruel to animals, he has never been so indulgent, a dirty dog on the side of the road half-starved and living on the cusp of death would never have turned his head. “There’s someone waiting for you, there’s someone who can love you. I promise that if you come with me, there will be more sausages and treats and care than you could ever imagine.”

The dog whines again, but it is higher pitched, a mournful keen. Hannibal’s fingers curl around the back of its scruff and he smiles. “Good boy.”

* * *

(Once upon a dream, through a looking glass, a lifetime and a few heartbeats away, Will had told Hannibal that their appetites were not the same. Hannibal devours, Will abstains — )

( — a shred of truth to it remains: Will’s taste may align now with Hannibal’s, but their appetites are different still, a distinction which Will grasps tightly in his hands, the fishing wire cutting into his palms. Hannibal oversees the rude and Will — )

(— well, there are so many people who would rather destroy than rebuild, who look only to destruction. Hannibal at least had put Will back together again or had attempted to. Will at least had destroyed only the damned.)

(— Will’s hunger is a constant ache in his chest, not a quiet beast like Hannibal’s. Hannibal stalks, Will lures. It is something else — something that roars and shudders, something that Will can’t choke down sometimes.)

(— Will likes to hurt bad people, Will loves to hurt bad people. A reckoning for those with silent cries, pleas left unanswered in shadowy cathedrals and in the dim candlelight, and Will avenges.)

(Will doesn’t need redemption, redemption hinges on the belief of a savior — Will’s fulcrum revolves around revenge, he luxuriates his hands in it, he bathes in it, the taste sweeter than heaven, honey-like and golden and rich.)

(Will is no longer afraid of looking in the mirror, he knows who is staring back.)

And Will knows who he is looking at now, at the man beneath him struggling under Will’s weight, under the force from Will’s blows, Will draws his arm back once, twice, thrice, and each time his fist lands with a satisfying reverb against the man’s face, his cheek, the soft of his throat. The man gurgles in response, and for a second, the howling thing inside Will is sated, and then it hungers once more. It is not enough, it won’t be enough — Will wants to tear this man open, crack his ribs, cut through the sinew and flesh and bone, Will’s desire bubbles up ferociously, a fervid heat under his skin, it clings to him, and its sweet kisses remind Will of the pomegranates that had so adorned Hannibal’s tables in a previous incarnation of their lives, and Will drowns in it, Will luxuriates in it.

(Will is the judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t mind the pedestal Hannibal has put him on, he sinks into his seat, the cushion firm underneath him, the armrests engraved in intricate patterns, swirls of birds and fruit and lions and claws and teeth.)

The man claws at Will’s face, desperate, his breath is ragged and he makes harsh animalistic noises. Will grins in response as he feels the man’s nails give and drag across Will’s cheekbone, manic. Hannibal sees his victims as lesser, to be preyed upon by the predator, Will sees them for what they are — pests to be put down.

(Will had seen just what the man had done — there are men like him everywhere. Men who take their anger out on someone else, men who live their lives hanging their heads under authority’s yoke, murmuring their assent, too cowardly to ever lift their gaze, to ever speak back, and only to turn around and hurt things that they shouldn’t touch, destroy things that they shouldn’t destroy, break and bruise and maim when they should protect. The anger flows through Will’s veins, heady and hot, and Will is drunk on it — )

(— Will has never seen so clearly before.)

His hand squeeze around the man’s neck and he croons as he hears the crunch of bones, delicate, grind underneath his touch.

* * *

“Will?”

Will blinks. Hannibal is there in the foyer, lovely as ever. His arms are empty and Will frowns, Hannibal had been so adamant in going to the store and neither of them practice lying to one another anymore, there is no place for omissions and treachery between them, no place for that in their union, their marriage.

“Hannibal,” Will says as he rises to his feet, his muscles stiff from where he had been crouched over the dead man’s form. His clothes are stained with blood, his knuckles sting, and he feels so alive. He wishes that Hannibal had been here for the finale, had been here to see, had been here to praise Will and lavish and delight together.

Hannibal is silent, staring at the scene before him. He makes no move towards Will and Will’s apprehension grows. “You were busy, mylimasis.” Hannibal pauses, his lips twitching in amusement. “Too busy for the suit?”

“Your murdersuit is ugly,” Will grumbles making his way towards Hannibal. “I didn’t mean to kill him, meant to wait for you. But you were taking too long, I couldn’t wait.”

“A far cry from fishing and lures,” Hannibal says docilely.

“Fish is for fish, and the lures are for you only,” Will smirks. “Besides, you like me better this way. Messes and all.”

There is a low growl and Will freezes, eyes landing on the figure behind Hannibal’s back, sitting on the ground, the dog has tracked mud into the house. It is filthy, it is beautiful, and Will stares, his chest caving in with the desire to stroke the dog’s ears, to huddle it close to him, to bury his face in its mangy fur. Will looks at the dog and sees family and he looks at Hannibal, a warbling smile, radiant, painted across his face.

There is a streak of red across Will’s cheek, Hannibal’s fingers come up to rest against the curve of Will’s jaw, thumb not so much as swiping the blood away but rubbing it in. Will’s answer is a tepid sigh, and he hums, content, as he leans against the warmth of Hannibal’s palm. The scar on Will’s cheek ripples as he smiles, “I see you’ve brought me back a gift.”

“Don’t I always?” Hannibal says, pleased that Will is pleased. “A big family, something we’ve both wanted.”

“Something we both dream of,” Will murmurs his assent as he sinks to his knees. His eyes are wet and Will stares at the dog and dreams and dreams and dreams. Sunshine and sea salt and meadows of flowers and wheat and the dog, Hannibal, and Will together always until the end of time and even beyond that.

“What will you name it?” Hannibal says, hand coming to rest in Will’s curls, reverent as he watches as Will slowly coaxes the dog from a wild thing to something kept, something loved, something that belongs. The dog licks Will’s hands and whines and Will’s eyes light up, brighter than any supernova, the aftermath of the big bang, the expanding galaxies and nebulae could not compare to Hannibal’s Will, bloodied and true and incandescently happy. 

(Hannibal has made Will happy, Will has made Hannibal happy. Hannibal wants them to be so happy, his teeth ache with it.)

Will’s fingers curl into the dog’s scruff. “I have just the idea.”

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAA AAA AAAAAA so this is my first hannibal fic and im so kasljdfoas so nervous aoisfjdsaofdsadfas this is my first time in a long time writing for a bigger established fandom bc i normally stick to arthuriana and ive been uh. scared to death about whether or not im portraying their characterizations properly aoisjdfjasodjfa
> 
> UM UM so my idea of this is that well. hannibal is a simp we all know this and love him for it. BUT the thought of hannibal post fall coming back to will with a dog while will kills a dude in their living room thus swapping the first few scenes of them in aperitif thus showing just how much they have become conjoined? yeahhh that's my shit.
> 
> anyways uh. im sure u dont have to let me tell u that this is not how you coax a dog on the side of the road with you. also google says you can feed dogs brie. originally it was gonna be like fucking gruyere but i went with brie because the idea is hysterical.
> 
> anyways hmu i'm on tumblr @[pendraegon](https://pendraegon.tumblr.com)


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